


1. The View from the Cliff - Inter-Views

by Denise_Felt



Series: Inter-Views [1]
Category: Gerry Anderson's UFO
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-05
Updated: 2010-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denise_Felt/pseuds/Denise_Felt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is a writer to do when her main character wants to meet and discuss his place in her stories?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The View from the Cliff - Inter-Views

## The View from the Cliff

  
by Denise Felt  2010

 

 

They met at the cliffs. The ones she'd always loved from that old black and white movie "The Uninvited." There was even a blasted oak nearby, and the booming sound of the waves crashing far below.

 

He wondered if she knew the significance of her chosen setting and hoped to get the opportunity to ask. And then wondered if she'd answer him if he did ask. She was a very private person, unwilling to let others see her hidden fears, her hidden dreams. Almost as if she thought they might scoff at them. Well, he could understand that reticence. He was a private person too.

 

He sat down at the edge of the cliff, his feet dangling over the edge of the rock. The entire world seemed visible from this vantage point, and he began to see another reason why she might have chosen this venue for their talk. The horizon seemed very far away over the sea, almost merging with it so that the ocean went on forever. The brisk breeze smelled strongly of the salty sea below and blew his white blonde hair in a rather pleasant way. He smiled.

 

That was how she saw him as she walked up the path from the beach. Smiling in enjoyment of his surroundings. She stopped, unwilling to interrupt him from his relaxation. She knew how little he got in his daily life.

 

But he must have noticed that he was being watched, because he looked down after a few moments and saw her on the path. They stared at each other a while, each adjusting their image of the other to suit the reality. Then he smiled again, this time in welcome. She relaxed and smiled back, coming up the last of the pathway to sit next to him on the cliff edge.

 

She said nothing at first, merely looking out over the water as if reacquainting herself with the vista. Finally she met his eyes, saying quietly in a rather husky voice, "I love this place."

 

Straker was glad of the opening, so that he could ask the question that burned inside him. "Why?"

 

"You mean, you don't like it?" she asked in surprise.

 

"Yes, I do like it. I meant, why do _you_ like it?"

 

"Oh." Her brows drew together slightly as she thought about it. "The quiet, I suppose. And the sense of life going on all around me. I was never one for isolation."

 

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that this place is the focal point of the entire movie or that the climax takes place here?"

 

She grinned, transforming her face from normal to beautiful by that act alone. "Well, duh! It is a very dramatic spot, and that naturally makes me think of new possibilities. To me, that's the very essence of writing – possibilities."

 

He nodded as if that confirmed something in his own thoughts. "But why a ghost story?" He meant the movie the setting was a part of.

 

She dropped her eyes, looking at her hands as she said, "That too is fitting, really."

 

He sighed. "Do I haunt you?"

 

She nodded, still looking down. He sensed that it embarrassed her to admit it. He laid one of his lean hands over her small clasped ones and said quietly, "I'm glad. Because you haunt me too."

 

She met his eyes in surprise, and he saw that they weren't brown as he had originally thought, but actually a rich olive green with brown around the pupils. Arresting eyes, he thought. If a man deciphered the secrets behind those intriguing eyes, he might find that the world had become boring in comparison.

 

"I do?" she asked softly, searching his face for any sign of duplicity.

 

Straker nodded. "I am always interested in the writers who tell my story. How they tell it says a great deal about them, perhaps more than they would feel comfortable with me knowing. But there are a few writers who intrigue me beyond that. You are one of those. Your stories are always uplifting, even when they deal with harsh reality. And that's unusual enough to get my attention. But even more, you portray me as extremely heroic. Self-sacrificing. Almost like Christ, even though you insist that I'm not a religious man."

 

She looked out over the water. "I love God with all my heart. But my love is a very personal thing to me, and I keep it to myself for the most part. Everyone sees Him in a different way, and I think they should be allowed to – without my opinion on whether I agree or not. But I can't help but express my idea of the perfect man in relation to God. Because to me, He_ is _perfect."

 

He grimaced slightly. "And I'm your perfect man?"

 

There was that grin again. "Well . . ."

 

Unexpectedly, he laughed. "Thanks! I know how to interpret that."

 

She giggled. It was an infectious sound, and his smile widened. "It's just that I married you once. Or at least," she added when he looked momentarily startled. "A man who was very like you in certain aspects of your personality."

 

"Hmmm. And it didn't work out, I take it."

 

"Not at all," she said firmly. "It was a disaster. We were not at all compatible. He was far too secretive and cold. And I was too young at the time to have enough faith in my own abilities to stand up to him. If I'd been older when we met, I would never have married him."

 

He thought about that for a while. Finally he said, "So why would you write about me? If I remind you of him, wouldn't you prefer to choose someone more amenable for your perfect man? Alec? Or Paul?"

 

She smiled at the idea. "I always saw my first husband as the way he _could _be, not the way he was. I suppose that's the main reason I stayed with him so long. Because I wanted to see him fulfill his potential and grow beyond the self-absorbed boy I knew. In a way, when I write about you as the perfect man, I am realizing that vision of him, giving him the opportunity in my stories to be the man he never was in reality. But beyond that, the way I write you also includes certain aspects of my second husband's personality – parts of him that I find very endearing."

 

"I take it that he's much more compatible with you." It was not a question.

 

Her smile was very sweet. "Yes. He's perfect for me. Not a perfect man, by any means," she explained. "But perfect for _me_."

 

"It's an important distinction," he said.

 

"Yes. And Alec is a great man, but not a leader. And every great story needs a leader."

 

"And Paul?" he asked, wondering what she would say about the character most females admired.

 

She shook her head. "You know, he's not at all handsome. I mean, every once in a while, he's charming – although probably not at the times _he_ thinks he is. But handsome to me requires strength of character and integrity. And he doesn't have it. I'm not certain that he ever will."

 

"That's a rather brutal assessment," he said after a moment,

 

"True. But accurate. You can't deny that," she challenged.

 

"No," he said softly. "I can't deny that. I had hoped when he joined SHADO that he might someday replace me at the helm."

 

"And you've changed your mind?" she asked, rather surprised. In her opinion, men didn't see themselves or others as clearly as they should.

 

He shrugged, unwilling to commit himself. "The jury's still out on that, I guess. Perhaps someone will write him as growing into a person with more 'strength of character' as you call it. Then – maybe."

 

"Maybe the new movie will portray him that way."

 

He looked at her in surprise. "They're trying again? Who's playing me this time?"

 

She shook her head. "I don't know. They haven't announced it yet. You can bet I've been praying. The success of the entire movie will rest on this one casting choice. It's going to be tough for anyone to fill Bishop's shoes. He did an excellent job playing you, you know. It was quite obvious once you met him that he had done a truly exemplary job."

 

"Ouch," he said wryly.

 

Her lips quirked. "Yeah. He was just a man. Nothing at all like you."

 

He didn't know what to say to that statement. He looked out over the ocean for a while in silence. When he glanced her way again, he found her smiling softly.

 

"What?" he asked her.

 

She met his eyes, understanding in hers. "You would defend him to me?"

 

He shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable at being found so loyal to an actor, of all things. "It's just that – just like writers – actors put some of themselves in what they do. So there had to be some things about him that you liked if you like my character."

 

"Perhaps," she conceded. "Actually I thought it was wonderful how hard he worked to get the other actors from the TV show to come to the Cons. And I'd been told that he could be quite gracious, which is nice. Even though I never saw it. But I didn't talk to him for more than just a moment, you know. And my first impressions were not favorable."

 

"But you did dance with him later," he said with a twinkle at the back of his eyes.

 

"I did not!" she denied hotly, then seeing his expression, calmed down as she ruefully accepted that she had been baited. She took a deep breath, then said, "He was dancing next to me, not _with_ me."

 

"Did you like that?" he asked curiously.

 

She shrugged. "I ignored him for the most part."

 

His blue eyes searched her face. "You intrigue me greatly, you know."

 

She met his eyes fleetingly, then looked at her hands again. "I don't know why. I'm quite ordinary."

 

He grinned. "Now _that_ is the one word I would never apply to you."

 

"I don't know why people say that," she said, sounding aggrieved. "When I look in the mirror, I don't see anyone special. I look very ordinary to me."

 

"Ah, but that's because you're used to you," he said. "And it's always harder to see yourself as others see you."

 

She was intrigued in spite of herself. "How do you see me?" she asked softly.

 

His response was maddeningly prompt, making her wonder if he had intended for her to ask him that. He said, "I see you like a puzzle box that hides all its treasures from casual observation, only revealing itself to those who really want to find out its secrets."

 

She looked away, staring off toward the distant horizon. But he noted that her hands had whitened as they held each other in her lap. After a long time, she asked quietly, "And do you want to know all my secrets?"

 

"Of course," he said matter-of-factly. "Why else would I have asked for this interview?"

 

"I thought . . ." She swallowed once, then continued. "I thought that you wanted to meet to tell me to stop writing all these romantic stories about you."

 

Straker smiled softly at her. "Now why would I do that? You've given me more joy in your stories than Gerry Anderson did in an entire series. Why would I want that to stop? Besides, I like the ladies you've paired me with. They're fun and adventurous. And beautiful. Thanks for making them beautiful."

 

She nodded. "Beauty's important."

 

"Well, it doesn't hurt," he said. "But I mostly meant that they are beautiful inside. Which makes the outside better too, don't you think?"

 

She looked at him in surprise. "Yes. I've always thought that. But I didn't think anyone else noticed."

 

"_Anyone_ else?" he asked quietly. "Or men in general?"

 

She shrugged, looking at her hands again.

 

"Do they all underestimate you?" he asked softly. "In searching frantically for diamonds, do they pass over the emerald, that rarest and loveliest of all gems?"

 

She gazed at him in wonder. "Is that . . . is that what you think?"

 

He took her hand, the right one that wore no wedding ring, and lifted it to his lips. "Thank you," he said softly. "For agreeing to meet me. I've learned all I needed to know. For now." He brushed his thumb along the back of her hand. "But let me share something with you that you may have already figured out on your own. Men are fools, by and large. But occasionally, in spite of that, we get lucky. Your husband no doubt considers himself extremely lucky." His grin flashed momentarily. "I envy him."

 

With that, he was gone, blinking out of existence as if he had never been.

 

Denise sat where she was for a long time, watching the waves roll in and crash over the rocks as if it were a matter of some importance. Damn him, she thought. Why hadn't he just insisted that she stop writing stories about him? Why hadn't he told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn't available for her use -- that he wanted no part of her silly fantasies? Why hadn't he been as high-handed and arrogant as she knew he was capable of? Why had he instead wormed his way inside her defenses and churned up all her unresolved feelings for him?

 

She had hoped that by granting this interview, she might come away more in charge of her emotions, at least where he was concerned. She realized suddenly that she had hoped that finally meeting him would cure her of him, in the same way that meeting Ed Bishop had cured her (at least for a while). But that was not what had happened. He had done most of the questioning, and she had been so bemused by his interest that she had blindly answered him, never once trying to keep the conversation on topics that she would have preferred. He had told her that he saw her as a puzzle box, an analogy that couldn't fail to unlock some of her deepest secrets for his inspection. And he had ended by calling her a rare emerald. What was a writer to do to protect herself against such a man?

 

Would he end up haunting her forever? And did he prefer it that way?

 

She sighed and eventually made her way down the cliff to the beach, heading back to town. Damn the man anyway.


End file.
